No Way to Die

by Warren C Easley

“A walking Jackson Pollock,” I quipped.

  She showed the tilted smile although her eyes failed to join in, reflecting instead the melancholy I sensed in our first meeting. Having lost my wife, I knew the feeling. Archie and I followed her into the house, which was tastefully decorated in pastel shades and comfortable-looking overstuffed furniture. Her studio was in the cupola, a glass-fronted, rectangular box jutting from the roof and accessible from the second floor by a spiral staircase. We climbed the stairs, followed by Archie, who made quick work of it in a show of his athletic prowess.

  “Well, that’s the first dog that’s ever made it up here,” Twila said as Arch summited, found a spot in the corner, and plopped down with his back to the wall, gangster style. “I call this my crow’s nest.” She moved some brushes and paint tubes so I could sit down. “Excuse the mess. I’m a pack rat. Never throw anything away.”

  “No problem. The view’s stunning.” An aria played softly in the background. “Is that Maria Callas?” I knew just enough about opera to proffer a guess of who owned that soaring soprano voice.

  Her eyes came to life. “Yes. “Mi chiamano Mimi” from La Boheme.” She smiled demurely. “I’m an opera fanatic. So was Sonny.” Her look turned wistful. “We had season tickets in San Francisco. Never missed a performance. I still go.” She took a seat in front of her easel and gazed out at the ocean. “The light’s so gorgeous today, I dropped everything to paint.”

  I had to agree about the light. Obscured by fine mist, the sun bathed the ocean in a rich, silvery glow. Now and then the mist would part, revealing a deep blue sky, and the ocean responded by morphing from silver to turquoise in that brief moment.

  Twila had covered a long, rectangular canvas with swirls of a matching silver hue and was in the process of adding silhouetted cypress trees that seemed to float through a silvery mist. “The wind doesn’t shape the coastal trees by actually bending the branches,” she said as she worked. “The buds on the side exposed to the salt and wind shrivel and die, while those on the sheltered side develop and grow away from the weather.” She sighed, showing a wan smile. “I identify with those trees.”

  “They’re survivors,” I offered. I watched her paint for a while, engrossed, and not particularly anxious to break the tranquil mood.

  She said, finally, “Is your investigation making any progress?”

  “Yes and no. Theories abound, but hard evidence is scarce.” Seizing the opening, I continued, “Walter Sanders told me your husband decided to go along with the LNG deal just before he died.”

  She kept painting, her eyes on the canvas. “That’s absurd, and Walter knows it. Why would he lie about that?”

  Good question, I said to myself. “He said the money was just too tempting.”

  She dipped the fine-tipped brush in black acrylic and continued to paint. “Well, Sonny wasn’t averse to making a buck, but like I told you, Cal, he hated the LNG proposal. Walter is either misinformed or lying.”

  “Sonny wouldn’t have agreed to something or signed any papers without you knowing?”

  “Not a chance. He kept me apprised of all the Condor dealings. We were close, a team.”

  I paused while she dabbed at the canvas. “You were painting on the night he was killed. Was that typical, I mean you two not hanging out together on a Friday night?”

  She managed a tight smile. “When I’m inspired, I make it a point to paint. Sonny was very understanding about that.”

  “A happy marriage, then.”

  “Very.” She dipped her brush again and turned her attention back to the canvas, the bent silhouettes of the trees forming an intricate, lace-like pattern.

  “What were your husband’s plans that night, I mean, while you were at the Tioga? Do you remember?”

  Her brush stopped in mid-stroke. “He was doing what he loved, woodworking. He was making a bookcase out of some gorgeous old walnut he had shipped in from North Carolina.” She looked at me, her eyes suddenly shiny in the ambient light. “That’s where I found him, in the garage that doubled as his workshop.” She swiped a tear and began painting again. “Sonny was a wonderful man.”

  I felt a stab of guilt for bringing her to tears. “I’m sure he was. You’re kind to help me like this, Twila. Just a few more questions and I’ll get out of here.”

  She looked at me, her face resolute. “That’s quite alright, Cal. I want to help. Don’t hold back on my account.”

  While she focused on the canvas, I took her back over her previous comments about the quarrel over the LNG deal and details of the sale of her share of Condor Enterprises. Nothing new surfaced, and by the time I finished that line of questioning, Maria Callas had moved on to other operas and most of the morning mist had burned off. I stood up and Archie sprang to his feet, his stump of a tail wagging anxiously. He’d had enough art and music.

  I paused at the staircase. “Is there anything else you can think of that might be important?”

  She put her paintbrush down and absently brushed back the hair that had fallen from her bun. “No, Cal, but if I do, I’ll contact you immediately.” She paused for a moment, then, “Do you think Walter had anything to do with Sonny’s murder?”

  I met her eyes and held them. “Do you?”

  She sighed deeply. “God, they had their issues, particularly near the end, but I never…” Her voice trailed off and she looked away. “How could he?”

  “Was that a question or an accusation?”

  Her eyes filled again, and she didn’t answer. I decided to leave it there. We spiraled back down to the second floor, then took the stairs to the first with Archie leading the way. The entry hall on the way out was lined on either side with family photos, portraits, and memorabilia. I was stopped by an oil painting of a woman who had the same off-kilter smile as Twila.

  “That’s Grandma Elenore,” she said. “I know, I know. I look just like her.” She pointed to a beautiful, multi-strand jade necklace around her grandmother’s neck and smiled. “When you crack the case, Cal, I’d like that necklace back.”

  * * *

  I drove away with mixed feelings. On one hand, the case against Walter Sanders was strengthened, but I did wonder if Twila was all that innocent as she slowly but surely painted him into a corner. And was she really unaware that her husband—Mr. Upstanding Citizen, to use Walter’s term—was screwing the wife of his business partner? I wasn’t so sure. There was something else, too—I could sense the sorrow she was living with. And for that, my heart went out to her.

  A wave of impatience and frustration washed over me again. I still hadn’t uncovered a single piece of physical evidence. Without that, I might as well be trying to figure out how many angels can dance on the tip of Twila’s paintbrush.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  When Arch and I got back to Sunset Lane, Nando’s Lexus sat in the beach house driveway, gleaming in the morning sun. A tribute to my friend’s fastidiousness, I’d never seen a speck of dirt on that car. “In Cuba,” he remarked to me once in a moment of candor, “I took a job in a big hotel because that’s where the good food was, food I could sneak to my family. Those were hard times, Calvin. Is it any wonder I enjoy the finer things in life?”

  Now an avowed capitalist, my friend had switched from communism with the zeal of the newly converted. In addition to being the best PI in Portland, he dabbled in real estate and owned a janitorial business. Nando hated bureaucrats and regulations and cut corners wherever he could, but I trusted him implicitly, and when it came to doing the right thing, I’d never known my friend to flinch.

  I found him and Claire out on the deck. With the mist burned off, the sky and the ocean vied for the richest, most beautiful shade of blue. “We picked up some smoked salmon and bagels,” Claire said. “Saved you some.”

  I scooped out the last flesh from half an avocado shell and spread it on a bagel, squeezed lemon juice on i
t, then layered on a slice of red onion, a slice of tomato, and a generous portion of salmon. “How did it go with Sissy?”

  Claire looked at Nando then back at me, her eyes alight. “Amazing, Dad. She’s got evidence that Max Sloat was involved in the distribution that Howard Coleman and the brothers were running.”

  I set my bagel down. “Evidence? What kind?”

  She fiddled with her computer for a moment, then pointed at the screen. “I took a picture of it and uploaded it. There are seven pages.”

  The photos revealed what appeared to be a handwritten tally sheet of some kind, inscribed in cramped but legible printing. Each sheet had three columns headed by HC, RB/DB, and MS. The rows were delineated by dates, the most recent being ten days before Howard Coleman was murdered and stretching back nearly six months at roughly two-week intervals. The entries in each column were dollar amounts. I studied them for a few moments then looked up and smiled. “HC stands for Howard Coleman, RB slash DB for the two brothers, RB being Robert, DB his sibling, and MS stands for Max Sloat.”

  “Bingo,” Claire said, her eyes wide with excitement. “And now we know the initials of both brothers. The dollar amounts are interesting, too. If you total across each row, you’ll find that MS always gets twenty percent of the take for that date.”

  “A management fee, I am thinking,” Nando said.

  “Right,” I responded, looking at Claire. “That fits with what Kenny said about Sloat’s trucks hauling more than timber. It looks like she’s taking a cut for providing cover for their fentanyl distribution.”

  “I asked Sissy about that,” Claire added. “She said the timber industry is so vital to the region that law enforcement gives them a wide berth, or it may be that Max Sloat’s paying off Stoddard or some of his deputies to turn a blind eye. In any case, no way Sissy’s showing this to Stoddard.”

  “Where did she find it?” I asked between bites.

  “She said she found it in the only book he owned—his deceased mother’s Bible—but she may have had it all along. She wants us to use the information but doesn’t want it to get out that Howard was distributing such nasty drugs.”

  Nando chuckled. “A lot of cash accrued in Howard’s column, north of one hundred and fifty thousand dollars by my counting. Perhaps Sissy would like to retain this money.”

  “That could be,” Claire said, “but she also wants justice for Howard in the worst way, and she sees us as her only hope. She’s gotten some death threats, too, Dad—phone messages telling her to keep her mouth shut about Coleman’s business dealings.”

  Nando showed a knowing smile. “She has the temper and fire of a Latina. I am reminded of some women I knew in Cuba. And she has an impressive arsenal—a double barrel shotgun and a couple of handguns, including a sweet, chrome-plated Sig Sauer P-320. It would be a mistake to underestimate this woman.”

  We kicked around the possibilities this new information suggested but quickly realized we had more theories than facts to back them up. After we had shaped a particularly complex conspiracy involving the various players, Nando smiled and said, “There is another explanation.” We both looked at him. “Howard Coleman was discovered skimming money from the drug operation. Max Sloat had the brothers kill him, or they did it on their own. The simplest solution is generally the correct one—what philosophers refer to as the Razor of Occam.”

  I expelled a breath in frustration. “In other words, no connection to our case. Point taken. We don’t know enough yet.”

  “So, what do we do next?” Claire said, looking equally frustrated.

  “We’ve got to find Robert and his brother,” I said. “And we can’t neglect Walter Sanders or the possibility that Walter and Max were both behind Sonny’s murder.” I went on to describe my meeting with Twila Jenson and the fact that she said her husband wanted nothing to do with the LNG deal.

  “That motive stays alive,” Claire said.

  “Have you heard back from the young woman Walter was carrying on with?” I asked.

  “As a matter of fact, Kathy Harper called back when I was headed over to Sissy’s. I kept it vague, said I was assisting an attorney and wanted to ask her a few questions about that time, background stuff. She became wary immediately. ‘I’m busy with a two-year old,’ she told me. ‘I’ll think it over and call you back.’ I’m not sure she ever will. Women, especially women in a close-knit community like this, are still reluctant to come forward.”

  That afternoon Claire and Nando planned to continue the hunt for the two brothers, but first Nando called his office assistant, Esperanza, to ask her to alert his contacts that Robert and brother D shared a last name beginning with the letter B. “That should narrow down the field even more,” he said when he clicked off.

  I went back out on the deck and opened a file folder marked “Millard Sloat” that Claire had prepared for me. It contained a fifteen-year-old article from the Coos Bay World, headlined “Local Businessman Lost in Boating Mishap.” It went on to describe how experienced sailor Millard Sloat and daughter Maxine ended up fighting for their lives in the frigid water just off Yoakam Point after a sneaker wave nearly flipped their boat. Miraculously, Maxine was able to save herself and get back in the boat. She then spent an hour and a half looking for her father before giving up and motoring back in.

  Another article dated seven months earlier announced the funeral arrangements for Annie Sloat, the younger daughter of Millard and sister of Maxine. Attached to that was Annie’s obituary, which described a quiet young girl of fifteen, who loved books and animals. The cause of death wasn’t mentioned, but Claire had written in the margin, “Rori told me she hanged herself.” I recalled the tattoo on Max’s forearm—her sister’s name bracketed with red hearts, a touching tribute. The final item was the obit of Millard’s wife, who died of cancer four years before the boating accident. In the margin, Claire had written, “Spousal loss a known trigger for sexual abuse of a family member…?”

  I sat back and thought about what I’d just read. The tragedies that had stalked the Sloat family weighed on me, and the suggestion that the elder Sloat had abused his younger daughter was revolting. Then a thought occurred to me—Claire, Archie, and I had something in common with Millard Sloat and Howard Coleman. Millard and Howard both died watery deaths, which was exactly what our attacker intended for us. Bizarre coincidence or something more sinister?

  I didn’t have an answer, and despite the deck being awash in brilliant sunlight, a cold chill snaked its way down my spine.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  “I’m working late tonight,” Max Sloat said. “I suppose I could spare a few moments then. I’ll tell Manny to let you in. Does seven work?” I told her it did, pleased she had taken my call. She chuckled. “Manny got his butt chewed for giving you a visitor’s badge last time. Passing yourself off as some kind of truck aficionado was devious, Mr. Claxton. What other tricks do you have up your sleeve?”

  “None, I assure you,” I said in a light tone. “I’ll wear a short-sleeved shirt just to prove it.” I clicked off, and my stomach tightened a couple of notches. Who was I dealing with here—someone who’s simply taking money from a drug operation or a stone-cold killer with a penchant for death by drowning?

  Claire and Nando called later that afternoon, and we agreed to meet for a quick bite at a little fish house in Charleston, the High Tide, ahead of my meeting with Sloat. “We did not turn up any new sightings of the Brothers B,” Nando said as he read through the menu, “and when we checked in with Joyce, the waitress at the bar where we think brother DB hangs out, she suddenly had no desire to speak to me. But luckily the story does not end there.”

  Claire smiled. “I’d been waiting in the car while Nando went in to talk to her. When he came out, I said, ‘Maybe she’s worried about being seen with you. After all, you do stand out in a crowd. Let me try.’ So, we waited a few minutes, and then I went in and got
her to tell me what happened.”

  Nando looked at me. “She has the velvet touch, this daughter of yours.”

  “I know.”

  Claire went on, “Joyce said that DB came in two nights ago, but a buddy of his pulled him aside, and then he left in a big hurry. DB’s friend must have seen Nando the first time, assumed he was a cop. Anyway, the guy gives Joyce a look that almost stopped her heart, you know, the keep-your-mouth-shut-or-else look.”

  “But she talked to you, anyway,” I said.

  Claire shrugged. “I said she’d be helping an innocent man get out of prison, that it was time for women to stop letting men push them around.” Claire looked at me, her jaw set in that defiant, stubborn line I’d known since her childhood. “That’s all it took, Dad. Joyce’s tough. All the women around here seem to be.”

  “Good work,” I said. “The good news is that the Brothers B may still be in the area. The bad news is DB won’t be popping into that bar again any time soon.”

  Nando slapped his menu down on the table and twisted his face into a scowl. “Always the bad news following the good. What we need is some good news that travels alone.”

  I couldn’t have agreed more.

  * * *

  “Thanks a lot, man,” Manny said, as he opened the side gate at Sloat Trucking for me. “Because of you I’m stuck on the fucking swing shift for the foreseeable future.”

  “I’m sorry,” I told him in a tone meant to convey my sincerity. “I didn’t mean for that to happen.”

  Sloat’s Dodge Ram, the only car left in front of the office building, sparkled like a polished cherry in the strong overhead lights. Maybe the world can be divided into people who keep their cars obsessively clean and those who don’t, I thought as I climbed the stairs and knocked on the office door.

  “I’m on a short fuse, but come in, Cal,” Max said, echoing how she greeted me the last time we met. She was dressed the same, too, except for the Pendleton shirt that replaced the khaki Carhartt.